


Ysgithyrwyn

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dominance, Dry Humping, M/M, Minor Violence, Sibling Incest, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin insists he’s loyal to his brother and invites Fëanor to test that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ysgithyrwyn

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Warning: **Fëanor is not nice in this.**
> 
> Háno = brother (hanno is the colloquial version)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

A part of him wants to go alone, yearning for this confrontation, but he’s spent so long covering his dislike that he reports it to his father anyway. Finwë suggests he respect Ñolofinwë’s request for him to come alone, and Curufinwë, if only to finally say all the words that eat at him, agrees. His father smiles, like this is progress: the sons of Finwë finally seeing eye to eye. Curufinwë doesn’t have the heart to explain how unlikely that hope is. 

He arrives in the audience chamber from a smaller side room, just beneath the ascending stairs, where a throne sits above. It’s carved for Finwë’s shape, but Curufinwë occasionally takes it: Tirion is his home, and all who dwell in it oblige him. But Ñolofinwë waits at the far end of the hall, turning to Curufinwë with warm eyes and a determined frown. 

Curufinwë is hardened and can’t bring himself to smile. He offers no greeting, and it’s Ñolofinwë that first says, “Háno.” It echoes down the long chamber, bouncing along the polished walls. Curufinwë almost corrects him. 

Instead, he answers stiffly, “I am here, as you wished. Now what is so important that it could not be trusted to messengers?”

Ñolofinwë’s frown seems to deepen at the harsh tone, though he couldn’t have expected any less. The time for Curufinwë’s skilled words has long since ended; the pretense is gone. With a note of sadness, Ñolofinwë returns, “I meant to speak to you. I wish to dispel, once and for all, the rumours that have run rampant through our land. None of them bear any truth. I dislike this division that has grown between us.” Curufinwë almost snorts; that’s nothing new to rumours. 

He never liked either of his brothers much, but Ñolofinwë has often been curiously difficult to banish. He moves now, sweeping forward with the back of his blue robes brushing the ground behind him, secured around his waist with a brown sash to match his boots, his trousers a darker blue than his long sleeves and coattails. Bravely, he comes right to the edge of the towering steps, so that only two arms lengths lie between them. Strong-voiced, he insists, “I never meant to challenge you, Curufinwë, in any way. I know that you are next in line for kingship of the Noldor, and I would have it no other way.”

That isn’t what Curufinwë’s heard. And he’s not sure if it’s something he could believe. Ñolofinwë had no right to be born at all, much less to cling in Curufinwë’s shadow. For Finwë’s sake, Curufinwë never quite says this. But now Ñolofinwë’s forced him to answer, and he replies simply, “You would never submit to me.”

“I would,” Ñolofinwë answers. He sounds too kind, as usual, if firm, somehow not contrary. Curufinwë must wear on his face that it’s not enough, because Ñolofinwë adds, “I do now.”

Curufinwë lifts an eyebrow. “You do not trust me.” 

“That is not true. I trust my háno implicitly. I have always looked up to you, and I have great respect for you, and I would do anything you asked.” Before Curufinwë can respond, Ñolofinwë takes another step towards him, then another, until they stand so close that Curufinwë can see _everything_ in Ñolofinwë’s eyes, and it baffles him how _true_ they seem. As intense as any Noldor, Ñolofinwë asks, “Tell me what I can do to prove that to you.”

Curufinwë’s eyes lift to the silver circlet draped along Ñolofinwë’s forehead, little different than his own. He eyes the long, dark hair that’s swept silkily over Curufinwë’s slim shoulders, the rich blue robes that stretch across his chest, the way his lithe waist is cinched in with his sash, and the shapely length of his legs. Ñolofinwë doesn’t crumble under the thorough examination of Curufinwë’s stubborn silence. Curufinwë searches all of him for a lie and finds none. 

A part of him thinks to send Ñolofinwë away. His birth sealed their damage, and nothing can change that. Another part wishes to keep him here, to mend things, so that Finwë may be happier and Curufinwë can have that _connection_ he’s never quite had with his wife. But then, she’s never shown him such devotion. Then there’s a deep, buried, cloying heat in Curufinwë’s chest that’s dying to tear Ñolofinwë apart, pin him down and devour him _whole_. This has grown so much stronger in later times, the will to _act_ overrunning Curufinwë’s careful words.

Curufinwë ultimately decides, “This runs too personal for the audience chamber.” Ñolofinwë nods, like he saw it coming, or he would simply follow his brother anywhere. Curufinwë turns without looking back and heads back to the door he came through, hearing Ñolofinwë on his heels. 

They walk silently through the halls of Tirion, occasionally passing servants that bow and scurry out of the way, and once, Nelyafinwë, who looks in surprise at Ñolofinwë but wisely says nothing. Curufinwë’s chambers are in the deep recesses, locked away and secure. He needs them to be. When he reaches the large wooden doors that bar his rooms, he holds one wide and watches Ñolofinwë fearlessly enter. 

Inside, Curufinwë shuts the door again, knowing no one will interrupt him here. He allows Ñolofinwë a brief moment to take it all in: the rich rug across the floor and mirrored in hangings, the tall shelves sporting Ñolofinwë’s various creations, the painted windows covered in cloth and the four-poster bed chiseled out of thick trees and bearing an array of thick cushions. Ever-lit candles line the room in elaborate golden stands, casting an orange glow about when Curufinwë has no use for the outside light. Ñolofinwë looks about with his reactions hidden. 

He’s never been here before, save in thought; Curufinwë’s often lay awake in bed with fantasies of this very thing—of _dominating_ Ñolofinwë and teaching him his place. When Curufinwë approaches him, Ñolofinwë foolishly doesn’t back away. Curufinwë lifts one hand to stroke Ñolofinwë’s cheek, brushing his knuckles down his brother’s creamy skin. They’ve spoken of this before, here and there, but never _done_ anything, Curufinwë’s never taken it far enough to resolve anything. Ñolofinwë’s eyes flutter closed, his face subtly leaning into the touch, before he opens again to look at Curufinwë half-lidded. His eyes repeat his promise. Then he lowers his head and gaze submissively, though he stands, perhaps, a little taller. 

It makes a shiver run straight up Curufinwë’s spine. It gives him a thrill. He finds it strangely fascinating. He knows his brother is strong, for he still holds Finwë’s line, but clearly, he knows that Curufinwë is _stronger_ in all the places where it matters.

Withdrawing his hand, he slaps Ñolofinwë suddenly, not particularly hard, but enough for Ñolofinwë’s head to jerk aside with the blow. He grunts in pain, wincing, but doesn’t fall. He tenses for only a brief moment, then releases again, and makes no move to protest or defend himself. It must seem uncharacteristic, for though Curufinwë’s thought of this many times, he’s never quite dared. Yet Ñolofinwë doesn’t question it. Curufinwë has the overwhelming urge to _knock him to the floor_. 

Curufinwë hisses, “What about now?” It’s bait for Ñolofinwë to give up and leave. Ñolofinwë’s hand lifts delicately to his face. 

He draws his fingers along where he was struck, now turning pink with the rush of blood, but lowers them again. He answers quietly, “I knew that you would test me. And I will bear any test that you bestow me, even if you choose to do it finally with your body instead of your voice. I will not be antagonized.” Curufinwë grabs Ñolofinwë’s chin, harsh and rough, dragging Ñolofinwë a step forward and lifting him on his toes. Ñolofinwë gasps, but surrenders again and murmurs, “You will do whatever you must to realize that for yourself, but I will harbour nothing but love for you.”

In a way, Curufinwë’s mildly furious. Ñolofinwë’s calm demeanor, subservience and defenselessness, should have no place among the Noldor. Ñolofinwë should be, _is_ , stronger than that. But at the same time, it spurs Curufinwë on, and he drops Ñolofinwë, only to backhand him so hard that he topples over. Ñolofinwë goes flying to the floor, landing on his hip and catching himself just short of his head bashing the rug. He takes in a shuddering breath but stays where he is, spread out with his hair and robes fanned out around him. When he looks back up at Curufinwë, there’s a tiny dot of blood beaded at the corner of his mouth. 

A tinier, inconsequential spark of guilt twists in Curufinwë’s stomach. He didn’t mean for it to be so hard, but he’s bottled his fists too long. The rest of him is racing with excitement. He’s equal parts ashamed, not for his violence but his thrill in this, in that he finds his brother so _beautiful_ , collapsed and still. Ñolofinwë’s eyes aren’t broken, but his body looks as though it’s close and could so easily be. Curufinwë’s finger-marks are now imprinted on his brother’s face. Ñolofinwë seems so much _smaller_ on the floor. Perhaps he would gladly take another. Perhaps he would let Ñolofinwë _grind him right into the earth._

“You are an afterthought,” Curufinwë growls without thinking, though he’s had this in mind so many times. “You are not _wise_. You have no right to my father’s love.” 

Ñolofinwë says nothing. Curufinwë slowly kneels down, still looming over him, and he doesn’t cower away. Curufinwë hisses, “You will take the first chance you get to seize control of our people.”

Ñolofinwë murmurs, “You could call me every vile thing you wished and break every bone in my body, háno, and I would still be loyal to my prince.”

Curufinwë shoots one hand out and seizes Ñolofinwë by the hair. His fingers twist in the dark locks, fisting and using that grip to wrench Ñolofinwë down. Ñolofinwë cries out in pain, but makes no move to resist, and for that Curufinwë drags him to his feet. Curufinwë turns him and throws him towards the wall, his chest hitting it and face turning aside, just in time for Curufinwë to slam against him. He can feel the flinch ricochet down Ñolofinwë’s handsome frame. Crushing him so hard that he seems to struggle to breathe, Curufinwë runs his hands down Ñolofinwë’s sides. He presses hard through the fabric, _feeling_ Ñolofinwë’s supple curves, subtle but so alluring. He doesn’t stop at Ñolofinwë’s hips, but slides right over them, then around, cupping his thighs and running up his chest, feeling him _everywhere_. When Curufinwë’s reached Ñolofinwë’s neck, he slips his fingers inside the overlapped folds of Ñolofinwë’s robes and pries them apart. He takes liberties with Ñolofinwë’s chest, smoothing over his pert nipples and rubbing them to hardness, squeezing his flat breasts in between and arousing everything— Curufinwë wants Ñolofinwë hyper-sensitive to his touch. He wants this to _burn_. Then he tugs the robes wider and down Ñolofinwë’s shoulders, revealing the curves of his biceps and more ripe skin to shimmer in the candlelight. He has to brush Ñolofinwë’s long hair to one side to get true access. 

Spreading his mouth open along one shoulder, Curufinwë traces it with his teeth. Then he bites in, just short of drawing blood, and holds, while his brother pants in his grip and lets out a strangled whine. It doesn’t sound of fear, but maybe pain, and something else that Curufinwë can’t place. Curufinwë wants to _mark_ him, _brand_ him. Curufinwë’s given Ñolofinwë trinkets that he’d made when they were younger—jewels, and rings, and diadems—but this is so much more _personal_. When he finally lets go, he enjoys the deep grooves of his teeth and the red splash it brings to Ñolofinwë’s otherwise faultless skin. 

Curufinwë’s _hungry_ for this, but it isn’t quite enough. He moves his hands around Ñolofinwë again, presses firmly against Ñolofinwë’s crotch, and drives him back into Curufinwë’s own bulge. It grinds against Ñolofinwë’s taut rear, hardened from the rush of power and Ñolofinwë’s offered beauty. Curufinwë probably wouldn’t want it without the submission. But he’s got it, and Ñolofinwë is being so _obedient_ for him that it’s hard not to react. Into Ñolofinwë’s pointed ear, Curufinwë hisses, “Would you withstand even _that_ from me?”

Ñolofinwë shivers in his arms. What ‘ _that_ ’ is is obvious. Yet Ñolofinwë only whispers, husky, “I would be honoured if you found me worthy of it.”

Curufinwë steps back, only to toss Ñolofinwë back again, and Ñolofinwë is thrown, once again, to the ground from the force. Like before, he only catches himself to keep from damage, not to defend, though they both know he could fight. It’s too _easy_. Curufinwë looks down at him, breathing just as hard and _burning_ , and yet warring with himself on what to do. He takes a step towards Ñolofinwë, wanting more of that _test_ Ñolofinwë dared to challenge. On impulse, Curufinwë sneers, then spits on Ñolofinwë’s face. Ñolofinwë turns aside, perhaps just on sheer instinct, and it hits his cheek, dribbling sickly down. He doesn’t wipe it off. 

Curufinwë walks away before he does any worse. He paces across the room, then back, though not in his brother’s direction. This has already gone too far, but it’s so difficult to resist the treat he’s been given. It satisfies so many of his desires at once—restitution, bitterness, lust, _dominance_. Ñolofinwë stays where he’s been put, like a pet or a toy. 

Most of all, Curufinwë doesn’t _understand_. He runs his fingers through his hair, and when he looks back, Ñolofinwë is watching him, eyes as fierce as they first were. Curufinwë doesn’t understand that intensity—how anyone could be so strong and yet allow themselves to be treated this way. Finally, Curufinwë asks, “What about your sons?” 

Ñolofinwë, for such a brief moment that Curufinwë barely has time to register it, pales. But then he steels back over and answers, “I love my sons dearly, but I have taught them well, and power is nothing I desire, nor something they desire for themselves. They would never, ever rise against you or yours. You are next in line to rule us _all_.”

The words only fan Curufinwë’s fire. The promise has barely left Ñolofinwë’s lips when Curufinwë storms back over. He grabs Ñolofinwë by the hair again and jerks him to his feet, then shoves him back against the wall, this time with them facing one another. Curufinwë flattens right in between his legs. Curufinwë takes hold of the remains of Ñolofinwë’s robes and nearly rips them open, shoving them down to pool at Ñolofinwë’s waist where the sash holds them on. Ñolofinwë’s chest arches wantonly forward, bare and tight with subtle muscle, his rosy nipples still peaked. He’s a vision of sheer loveliness: a more ripe, pretty elf than Curufinwë’s ever had in his bed. He thinks of clawing Ñolofinwë’s trousers off but somehow resists, instead just rutting into him. Curufinwë rolls their hips together, not so much lewd as _brutal_ ; he pounds Ñolofinwë into the wall with each thrust. Ñolofinwë’s breath flutters, but he remains pliant. Curufinwë presses their foreheads together, staring hard in Ñolofinwë’s eyes. 

The only things he can find are all the promises Ñolofinwë’s given him. There is no hesitance, no doubt. All Curufinwë can see in them is a desire to be _his_.

He snaps. He tilts his head and dives forward, locking his mouth against Ñolofinwë’s without any warning. He shoves his tongue in and pries open Ñolofinwë’s lips, and Ñolofinwë surrenders even to that. He kisses Ñolofinwë hard and fast and thoroughly, licking all of Ñolofinwë’s mouth and suckling at his tongue, biting at his teeth and lapping away the lingering stain of blood from being abused. Curufinwë takes Ñolofinwë until he realizes he’s squeezing the back of Ñolofinwë’s ass in one hand and nearly pulling out his hair with the other. When Curufinwë pulls away, Ñolofinwë’s mouth stays open, like ready to be taken again.

“You would do anything for me?” Curufinwë asks, repeating earlier, though he hadn’t believed it then. 

Ñolofinwë vows, voice thick with clear arousal, “ _Anything_.”

It’s still curious, but finally, after hitting and tasting and using his body, Curufinwë _believes_ him. Curufinwë always thought Ñolofinwë weak of skill, but he minds less when that weakness is for _him_. He takes a step bitterly away, though he’s hard and can feel that Ñolofinwë is, too. 

He thinks of ordering Ñolofinwë to his bed. It would be easy, and he knows now that Ñolofinwë would oblige, not just for duty. Curufinwë lifts a hand to cover his eyes, sighing heavily—Ñolofinwë has always complicated things. 

Finally, he mutters, “Leave, hanno.”

The look of shock that rushes to Ñolofinwë’s face makes everything worth it. Curufinwë has never addressed him that way. Ñolofinwë opens his mouth wider, and for the first time, looks like he might protest. But in the end, he obeys even this, and he turns to walk towards the door, drawing his clothes back up around him, until he’s as pristine as ever.

He pauses just before he’s reached the handle. Then he looks back and promises, “Any time that you should want me, I will come.” Curufinwë nods. He already knew that.

Then Ñolofinwë leaves, back out into the halls of Tirion, and soon out of Curufinwë’s life, as Curufinwë used to wish him. It leaves Curufinwë horribly alone with a jumble of thoughts and feelings and more sin than he’s ever carried. 

He blows out the nearest candle, just so he can scream and throw the holder halfway across the room.


End file.
